


The Battle of Castillon

by Dewy_Peach



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: England's memories and pov, Established Relationship, Fluffy Ending, Historical, M/M, Mentions of Death, Nationverse, Wartime, canonverse, rare glimpse of England's romantic and soft side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 17:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewy_Peach/pseuds/Dewy_Peach
Summary: England recalls a strange encounter with France.





	The Battle of Castillon

Perhaps one of my strangest memories of France happened during the Battle of Castillon. It was at the end of what would later come to be called the Hundred Years' War, and would more accurately be described as an exhaustingly long series of disputes between the two of us. 

That was a bad time in our relationship, probably one of the worst. Each meaningless conflict was followed by another, and each “victory” was rewarded by an attempt for vengeance from the other side. We were so full of hatred and so stupidly proud that we were willing to risk everything just for a chance to hurt each other. 

It was hard to remember that we’d used to be close friends - no, that’s not right, France had been like family to me. But in those dark years, I refused to see him as anything other than my mortal enemy. 

On the day in which this story takes place, I was riding in a force led by John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. I will save you the tedious histories that led to that battle. All you need to know is that our spirits were high due to previous victories, and that we saw a cloud of dust rising from the enemy camp, and thought that the French must be retreating.

So we marched on, full of vigour, hoping to catch them unguarded.

It was an unpleasant surprise indeed when we found ourselves faced with the full force of the French army. 

Talbot insisted on continuing the attack, because he didn't want to appear a coward in front of the soldiers. And I, foolishly, agreed, because I didn't want to appear a coward in France's eyes.

***

About an hour into the fight I was forced to admit defeat. We were outnumbered and in a vulnerable position that we had no chance of escaping.

I was firing arrow after arrow, never missing (centuries of practice can grant that much). Our longbows offered a considerable advantage against slow and armoured foot-soldiers, but the French cannons killed half a dozen men with each shot, and the ranks around me were thinning, pushed back by the force of the attack. I knew that soon I would have to draw my sword and fight for my life. 

Before that could happen, I heard a new sound, something different than the usual cacophony of men fighting and dying. It sounded like distant thunder. But of course, it wasn't. 

I felt a terrible cold spreading in my guts as I noticed a second cloud of dust at the horizon. Dust raised by the hooves of a thousand horses. Soon enough, I could see the black-and-white ermine flag of Brittany flapping in the wind, and heard the sound of trumpets, cheerful as if they were already celebrating their victory. 

We all knew we were as good as dead. The next minutes were complete chaos. I desperately tried to get the soldiers around me to regroup and form some sort of defence, but they were already panicking and running in all directions. When the Breton cavalry reached us, it hit us like an ocean wave swiping away the scattered shells on the shore. 

It wasn't a minute before I was thrown off my feet, hitting the ground with a blow that knocked the air out of my lungs. My world turned black as the riders flew past, trampling me down.

***

When I came to, there was pain everywhere, and a spear pointed at my chest. The Breton soldier holding it looked almost full of pity; his brow was furrowed and he shook his head to himself, no doubt thinking that I was too young to die in battle. 

I was determined to face my doom bravely, with my eyes open, and that was why I saw the sword bursting out of the soldier's chest before he did. He looked down and cried out in mixed pain and terror, and then the sword was pulled out of his body and he slumped in his saddle, toppling over.

Behind him, on a striking white horse, was no other than France himself.

***

France. Francis. How can I describe him to you?

If you've never seen him, you might be living your life thinking that there's no thing such as true perfection. You're wrong. France  _ is _ perfect. He is beautiful enough to make you burst into tears. He's beautiful enough to outshine the sun, to make the Earth stop turning. 

And he knows it.

The bastard.

***

He wasn't wearing a helmet that day, as if he was fearless or immortal. Nobody knew better than I that he was none of those things. The truth was that the sight of his face was enough to inspire his soldiers to fight on through pain and exhaustion. They would sacrifice their lives for him, even if they didn't really understand who he was or  _ what _ he was. 

His hair was like threads of gold, even if it fell over his shoulders in sweaty knots. His lips, cracked and bloodied, were still the warm pink of a sunset sky. His skin was pale, but smooth as marble, and his features as delicate as a butterfly's wing. He seemed to be surrounded by light. When he looked down at me with blue fire in his eyes, I thought I was hallucinating. I thought I was dying. And I smiled to myself, because I was content to pass away with France as the last thing I'd see in this world. 

Then he spoke, and his voice dragged me back into consciousness as if he'd slapped me. “You're not dying today, Arthur,” he yelled, his face twisted with rage. “Get up. Get up and fight!”

My thoughts snapped back into focus. My heart began beating faster. I felt my face growing red. There was no way in hell I would die at France's feet.

I clenched my jaw and slowly, painfully, pulled myself up to a sitting position, then stood up.

How long had it been?

The ground around me was littered with corpses. Noise from the distance indicated that a few of my men were still putting up a fight, but clearly, the battle had already been lost. 

France had won. 

“Why did you save me?” I asked. I felt humiliated.

There was no answer.

I looked around for France. He was nowhere to be seen. I thought I recognised a flicker of white and gold in the distance, disappearing into the mass of the French army, but couldn't be sure. 

***

When I asked Francis about it years later, he claimed he didn't remember. I don't know if he was lying, or had forgotten, or if he hadn't been there in the first place.

If he really saved my life, I feel like he'd never admit it.

I like this story, though; I smile when I remember how ethereal and otherworldly he had looked to me. He's next to me now, with messy hair, pyjamas and a morning stubble. Still perfect, but very real and very human, and very much within my reach.

  
  



End file.
